


Not the Point

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: First Time, Frottage, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Protective Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-12 12:45:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17467808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: This has not been Tony’s week — and that’s before Peter almost dies.





	Not the Point

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dreamkist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamkist/gifts).



> As soon as I saw your prompt for Peter/Tony — _Tony is stressed and pushed to the limit. He does something he wants to do even though he shouldn’t_ — this idea jumped into my head, and I just had to write it for you. I really hope you enjoy!

This hasn’t been Tony’s week. Not that last week was particularly his week, either. Or the one before that, or really any week since they brought down Thanos. But this one’s been especially bad.

The grand parade of shit kicked off with finally announcing the end of the engagement. Which led to SI stock prices dropping, because apparently the general public doesn’t believe he can be mature about it. So, of course, then the board was furious, which meant Pep freaked out and forced him to go to a bunch of PR events (“You owe me, Tony, so don’t even start”). Those things make him want to gouge his eyes out at the best of times; now, they’re a total nightmare. Every question is either about his love life or Thanos. Mostly Thanos, which is the last thing he wants to talk about.

And then there are the _actual_ nightmares.

He’d thought his dreams would improve once they finally beat the bastard. No such luck. He should’ve known better than to underestimate the capacity of his own brain to dick him over. It used to be Titan on repeat. Now, it’s a million horrific variations on the theme: their victory unwinding, Peter disappearing before his eyes, again, slipping through his fingers as they’re in the lab, sparring in the gym, watching a movie. The few moments of peace he feels anymore, twisted into the one thing he’s sure he wouldn’t be able to survive.

He’s woken up, shaking, tears in his eyes, every night for the past month. He doesn’t remember what it feels like not to be tired.  

So of course, of _course_ some wackjob with an army of robots decided today is the day to attack downtown Manhattan. Just perfect. They couldn’t even wait two full months after the end of the apocalypse? (At least it’s an excuse to skip whatever insipid cocktail event Pepper scheduled for the evening. Silver linings.)

He’s coming from the compound, but he’s on the scene in under fifteen minutes. Three robots, at least seventy feet tall, are smashing through the Financial District; their goal is a little unclear, but it doesn’t matter what they want — _his_ goal is to stop them, and fast. Fortunately, the NYPD is pretty good at dealing with this kind of situation by now, and a quick scan shows most civilians have already evacuated the area. There’re a few stragglers bunkered down in basements, which is probably fine, and —

And a small figure in blue and red, swinging between the buildings, webbing up a robot.

You have _got_ to be kidding.

“Fri,” he barks, flying into the melee, getting to work against one of the other robots. “Why didn’t you tell me the kid is on the scene?”

“I didn’t know!” his AI responds, sounding flustered, which is not a thing she should be able to sound.

“What do you mean, you didn’t know? Patch me through to him.”

She doesn’t reply right away; while he waits, he manages to disable the robot’s power source with a well-placed shot. It staggers and then falls forward into the street, managing to miss any buildings, but dragging down several streetlamps and crushing a row of cars. Well, that’s what they get for parking in Manhattan.  

“I can’t reach Mr. Parker, sir,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. finally reports. “He doesn’t appear to be connected to Karen.”

“Why — you know what, never mind. I’ll deal with him later.” 

On quick evaluation Peter seems to be holding up fine against his robot, looping around it with ease, so Tony focuses on the third one. It’s not hard to defeat; the things are big, but they’re clumsy and slow, moving with an unsteady, jerking gait. Amateur, really, despite the impressive scale. It only takes a few minutes to bring it to the ground, and most of that time is spent corralling it to a construction site owned by SI. It destroys several million dollars’ worth of new buildings as it goes down, which Pepper is going to be furious about, but fuck it. They can afford the hit.

He arrives back on the scene just in time to see Peter finishing up. He has wrapped the robot’s legs tight — Tony is reminded of Germany, when he’d thought his world was ending over a spat between friends, before he knew what the world ending is really like — and he’s tugging at it, clearly trying to get it to fall away from the highest buildings. Just as Tony swoops over to help, the robot swings one of its giant arms and Peter goes flying, hurling toward a skyscraper. He releases a web but misses, then another — misses again. He must be going too fast to aim.

And then he’s falling, arms flailing, a straight drop from at least ninety feet up.

Time stops.

Tony can’t think through the panic as he speeds in Peter’s direction, entire mind nothing but the word _no_ — _no no no no no_ — this can’t be happening, not again, not for real —

He scoops Peter into his arms just feet from the pavement — notices he’s wearing the fucking onesie, _what the fuck_ — and immediately blasts away, only priority getting to safety.

He can hear the final robot crash to the ground behind him, and F.R.I.D.A.Y. reports no injured parties, so he sets a course back to his apartment in the city.

“Kid, you got some ‘splainin to do,” he warns as he hits the booster, jetting home.

***

He flies through his living room window — he _knew_ there was a reason he made it big enough for that — and unceremoniously drops Peter while still hovering feet above the floor; he falls with a thud that probably hurts a little, but a whole lot less than hitting the pavement after a ninety-foot drop would have.  

“Okay, explain,” he demands, landing and retracting his suit.

Peter scrambles to his feet, ripping off his mask. His hair’s a mess, there’s a cut under his right eye, defiance is written across his face. It’s a good look for him, which is one-hundred percent not the point. The point is he’s about to start spewing some excuse, and Tony is _not_ in the mood.

“Well, there were robots attacking the Financial District, and last time I checked that’s the kind of thing we normally like to stop — ”

“Don’t get sassy with me, kid. I invented sass,” Tony cuts in. Peter has the audacity to look like he’s going to keep arguing, so he adds, “What the hell is up with the return of the onesie?”

That gets Peter to snap his mouth shut, a slight blush rising to his face. (Which is also a good look, and that is also _not_ the point.)

“There’s a glitch with Karen’s connection to the web-slingers,” he admits after a moment, a little less mutinous. “She kept using the wrong setting, it was throwing me off.”

“And you didn’t mention this because…?”

“It just started two days ago!” Peter crosses his arms, then uncrosses them, as if trying to figure out which stance makes him look more confident. The answer is neither. “I was going to tell you this weekend when I came over. It didn’t seem worth bothering you about before then. I know you’re really busy.”

“Okay, one, I’m never too busy for you, you should know that by now.” He steadfastly ignores the smile that spreads across Peter’s face at that; the one he always gets when Tony says anything remotely nice, that lights up the room and makes Tony’s heart stop and that is _not the point_. “And two, even if I wasn’t available, the solution to that problem is definitely _not_ going back to wearing pajamas in public.”

“I wasn’t planning on wearing the suit,” Peter explains, still smiling a little. “I just stuck it my backpack in case something really crazy happened.”

“Then I must be going insane, because it looks to me like you’re wearing it right now.” Tony lets the anger that’s been clutching at his chest slip into his voice. The fear. He needs him to understand. “You still haven’t explained that.”

Peter’s smile falters. “Well…something really crazy happened.”

“What were you even doing there?” He takes a step forward, and then another, and is pleased to see that makes Peter look a little nervous. Maybe he’s getting that this isn’t a joke.

“I was on a field trip.”

Tony can’t stop himself from letting out a harsh laugh at the improbable absurdity of that answer. “You should really stop going on those.”

Peter blinks at him, eyebrows stitching together, smile gone. “That isn’t funny.”

“No,” he snaps, crowding closer. His head is pounding; he can feel the flush of anger running up his neck. (Maybe not just anger. _Still_ not the point.) “What isn’t funny is you getting taken down by a knock-off Transformer because you did something completely idiotic — ”

“It wasn’t idiotic!” Peter sounds just as outraged as Tony feels. He backs up, but doesn’t get far before hitting the wall. “I took on the Vulture in this suit — ”

“It _was_. Peter, you could have died — ”

“But I didn’t!” _Again_ floats unspoken on the air, and for a moment Peter looks profoundly small, curling in on himself. “I’m totally fine.”

“You almost weren’t.” He collapses the space between them until they’re only inches apart; until he can feel Peter’s breath hot against his face. “You can’t keep doing things like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like playing fast and loose with your safety.” He shoves Peter flush against the wall, filling the movement with all the frustration of the last week, the last month — the last year, struggling to undo the end of the world, dreaming of getting this heroic, irresponsible _idiot_ back. “You want to be a big boy, grown up Avenger, you have to start acting like you understand what responsibility is.”

“I know what responsibility is.” It’s almost a whisper, alight with fury.

Tony grabs a handful of the suit, that stupid, flimsy suit, and twists it in his fist. “You clearly don’t.”

“What is your _deal_?” Peter brushes his hand away, breaking his grasp without trying. But he doesn’t shove him off, doesn’t slip away from the wall. “No offense, but you’ve been freaking out lately. Is it because of the breakup, or — ”

“Stop,” he snarls, leaning closer, so close that all it would take is the slightest movement and their lips would touch and — _not. the. point._ “My personal life is none of your business.”

“It is if you take it out on me!”

“I am _not_ taking Pepper out on you. I’m taking _you_ out on you.” He jabs a finger against Peter’s chest, punctuating the words.

Peter grabs his wrist, clings to it, doesn’t move it away. “What does that mean?”

Tony can smell him, sweat and musk, the salt of a pretzel on his breath. Under his fingers his heart flails at triple speed. The room has gone fuzzy around them; all he can see, all he can feel, is the person standing in front of him. There, alive, miraculously, despite his stupidity, despite — everything.

The few inches between them suddenly feel unbearable.

Peter is staring up at him with those eyes, wide and brown, fiercely intelligent, taking in every detail. “Mr. Stark, what does that mean?”

“Oh, kid,” he breathes, mouth dry. It takes every ounce of willpower he has not to grab him, crash him against the wall, hold him and never stop. “You do not want to know the answer to that question.”

“I really think I do, though.” Those eyes don’t leave his face as Peter tugs his wrist, pulling him off balance.

Their bodies slam together, and he’s done.

He scoops his hand behind Peter’s head, bringing their mouths together, kissing him hungrily. It’s messy and breathtaking, salt and spit and need, fantasy made real; he barely registers Peter’s arms circling around him, pulling him closer. The body against his is warm, almost hot through the thin fabric of that stupid, disastrous suit, and all he wants is more.

He shouldn’t be doing this, some distant part of his mind reminds him. Peter is sixteen. _Sixteen_. He’s supposed to be protecting him, and —

And he’s wrapping his legs around Tony’s waist, tangling his hands in his hair, moaning with an urgency that goes straight to his dick. Fuck.

He breaks the kiss and pulls back, despite Peter’s protests, far enough to look at him. He’s glowing red, panting, lips already a bit swollen. Grinning, triumphant, laughter in his eyes. It’s the happiest Tony’s seen him since Titan.

“This isn’t okay,” he tells him, but even as he’s saying it, he knows it’s useless. The flush on Peter’s cheeks, the way his chest rises and falls as he tries to catch his breath, the pure joy splashed across his face — there’s no part of him that’s strong enough to resist that.

Peter must know it, because he just shrugs, looking down and then up through his lashes in a way that’s truly unfair. “You know, Mr. Stark, I’m not actually very good at following rules.”

And then they’re kissing again. Peter pulls at his hair, legs tightening around his back; his erection brushes against Tony’s stomach and suddenly his entire body is on fire. The wall isn’t enough. He needs Peter under him.

“Hold on,” he whispers. He tightens his arms around Peter’s back, and, clutching him close, walks them to the couch in the middle of the room. It’s long, wide, leather. Made for exactly this kind of thing, if Tony’s being totally honest. But he never expected to be carefully lowering _Peter_ to these cushions, falling on top of him, body pressed to body, sprinkling kisses across his hair, his face, his neck.

Not that he hasn’t imagined it, touching himself late at night after waking from dreams of hands and lips and soft skin. But he was going to resist. It was supposed to stay in his head. That had been the plan.

He’s never been good at following plans.

He props onto one elbow to get a better view: Peter Parker, stretched below him, gazing up with pure adoration. He strokes his hair, delighting in the way he leans into the touch.

Then Peter’s reaching for him, dragging him back into the kiss, and he’s not going to argue with that. He weaves one hand into the soft brown curls he’s yearned to grab for — well, for longer than he’d like to admit — letting the other trail down Peter’s body, skimming his side. Peter gasps and arches, stiff cock brushing against Tony’s own erection; even with layers of fabric between them it sends a shock of want up his spine. He hears himself moan, low and deep, greedy, as he grabs Peter’s hip. Peter responds by bucking up again.

“Fuck,” Tony growls before moving to Peter’s neck, grazing him with his teeth. Peter’s nails dig into his shoulders and he practically whines, arching into Tony harder, so hard it almost hurts. He doesn’t mind, likes feeling Peter against him, firm and real and alive and here and _his_. He nips and sucks at his skin, and is rewarded with Peter whimpering and rutting faster.

Each new sound sends a spark through his body, lighting up his skin like physical touch; arousal builds in his gut with almost embarrassing speed. He begins to rock in response to Peter’s movements, erection against erection, the rough interruption of his pants the only thing preventing him from orgasming on the spot.

“Are you — still — mad at me?” Peter pants out between moans.

“Furious,” Tony replies, and then sucks at his ear and thrusts down, sending a shiver through his body. Peter’s rubbing faster now, arching up with abandon; Tony doesn’t care, just thrusts back, lost to lust, to the feel of the body underneath his burning hot, the fingers clawing along his back, the breath coming in bursts against his cheek, quiet gasps filling his world.

“Why?” Peter manages to ask, though it comes out almost strangled. He’s not looking for a lecture, that’s obvious even through the haze of arousal. The answer he wants is one Tony probably shouldn’t give. _Definitely_ shouldn’t give. But then he bucks up — _fuck_ that feels good — and demands: “Mr. Stark, why?”

How can he say no?

“Because I can’t lose you again.” It comes out breathy and desperate, and he finds himself thrusting harder. He presses their foreheads together; this close, Peter’s eyes are all he can see, deep and hopeful.

“Why?” The question is so quiet he can barely hear it over the sound of his own groans. Peter’s rutting fast and rough, all sense of rhythm lost, legs twining around his, hands pulling him closer. He’s consumed by it, returning each movement, fisting into his hair, clutching his waist, thrust meeting thrust. He can feel himself getting close, out of control —

“Because — ” He shouldn’t answer, shouldn’t say something he can’t take back. But Peter’s eyes are pleading for more, his lips form the word _please_. “Because I adore you, kid.”

Peter comes with a cry, eyes squeezing closed, hips jerking as a warm spot spreads between them, and that’s enough to push Tony over the edge too. He buries his head against Peter’s neck as he rides out the pleasure with long strokes, surrounded by nothing but his scent, the sound of his breathing, the heat of his body. Him.

As soon as he regains some semblance of control Tony lifts himself back up, and is relieved to see Peter is smiling lazily, basking in the after-glow, eyes closed, hair plastered to his forehead. The apologies he was about to make, the warnings that this was a mistake, that it can’t happen again, evaporate. Instead, he reaches down to brush the hair out of Peter’s face.

“Hey,” he says when he opens his eyes. “You okay?”

“I don’t know.” Peter’s smile falters and fades. “Are you still angry?” It’s tossed off, light and teasing, but underneath that there’s a real question, a trace of worry.

“I’m not angry,” Tony assures him, grazing his hand cross his cheek. His skin is soft; he wants to touch more of it, but he pushes the urge aside. “I was never really angry.”

“I think you were angry,” Peter counters skeptically. He shifts a little, turning to nip at Tony’s fingers before adding, “You were shouting a lot for someone who wasn’t angry.”

“Okay. Yes, I was,” Tony admits. He gently guides Peter’s gaze back to his. “But only because I fought too damn hard to get you back to watch you die again.”

Peter considers this with a serious frown, as if trying to process the implications. “I thought you fought to save the world. Universe. World and universe.”

“Well, that too.” He should stop there. Saying anything more would be a mistake. (What’s one more mistake?) “But I would have done it all for you.”

And there’s that smile again, bright and wide. But only for a moment. Because Peter’s pulling him into another kiss, and Tony doesn’t protest. He should. He _should_. But he doesn’t. Instead, he melts into Peter’s mouth, luxuriates in the way his lips part, in the soft flick of his tongue. Without the urgency they have time to be gentle. He finds Peter's hand and laces their fingers together, squeezing tight.

He could live in this moment forever.

When they finally break apart, Peter whispers, “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” The anger feels like a distant memory. He tugs at the flimsy red fabric clinging to Peter’s chest. “But how about you retire this suit for good? We kind of ruined it, anyway.”

“I’ll get rid of it if you help me get out of it,” Peter replies, with a coy grin that sends a jolt to Tony’s core. This kid is going to kill him.

“That’s a terrible idea, and I love it,” he mutters, kissing him again.

Maybe this is his week after all.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feedback is loved and cherished.
> 
> Re-dated because this was an exchange fic, and now authors have been revealed. Sorry if you'd seen it already!


End file.
